I could hear the shouting quite clearly from my back garden.
Serves them right! I hope Melissa gives Saskia hell about it too.
But I didn’t spend long listening. I had things to do.
I dressed carefully for the visit to the police station, putting on my smart blue Mackintosh even though the sky was leaden and the air thick with heat. I was rehearsing what I might say as I walked to the bus stop.
‘I believe my neighbour has committed a terrible crime.’
Or:
‘I saw my neighbour hiding something in her kitchen. I think it could be a murder weapon.’
Nothing sounded quite right.
But in the end, I never got that far.
I was mulling all this over when I spied a young woman with a child who looked rather lost coming up my road. She was a common sort of creature; puffing away on a cigarette right over the little girl’s head, face all pinched up. Her large, rather doleful, eyes were framed by spider legs of gluey mascara.
Something about her manner caught my attention and I slowed my steps. She kept looking at houses and then walking on a little bit, clearly searching for something. Or someone. The child was obviously tired, and I heard the woman snap at her in a way that wrenched my heart a little.
Getting closer, I studied the child, who seemed to be about four. She was on the chubby side, with thin blonde hair drawn into an unflattering topknot. When she spotted me, she stared with the wonderful lack of guile that all small children share. It took a second for me to realize that she had Down’s syndrome. Poor little mite. Sympathy flooded my veins.
‘Can I help you at all?’ I said to the young woman, and she looked at me suspiciously before sighing and stubbing out her cigarette on the pavement. I nearly said something about littering but decided against it.
‘I’m looking for someone who I think lives round here,’ she said, with flat northern vowels. ‘You probably don’t know her.’ She eyed me up as though she could possibly make that sort of judgement based on appearance.
‘Well, why don’t you try me?’ I said politely.
She hesitated for a second and a nerve jumped in her cheek. I got the feeling that she was thrumming with tension inside and trying to hide it.
‘She’s called Mel,’ she said grudgingly. ‘I don’t know her second name.’
She blushed hard, no doubt conscious that trying to find someone in a city the size of London with such scant information was a fool’s errand.
But … Mel? Could it be?
‘I know a Melissa,’ I said steadily, excitement flickering like a lit candle. ‘Could that be the person you’re looking for?’
She gave nothing away. But she looked exactly like someone Melissa wouldn’t want as a friend. Something told me, pleasingly, that she spelled TROUBLE.
With a thrill of shock I realize she might be connected to that Jamie character in some way. A sister? Melissa told me he had no ties, but it has to be possible I suppose. This would be very stressful for Melissa.
‘Let me show you the way,’ I said with a warm smile.
I walked her and the little girl all the way to the front door.
And now I am here, in the garden, hoping to overhear what might be happening next door but, frustratingly, she must have the doors shut.
I am running out of things to do when Bertie suddenly presses his nose to the gap in the fence and begins furiously wagging his tail.
The small, pale arm of a child worms through the gap and roughly taps the top of Bertie’s head with a chubby flattened hand. As I get closer I hear a hoarse giggle. Bertie rolls onto his back for a tummy tickle.
Tentatively, I crouch down next to my dog and look through the hole in the fence.
‘Hello,’ I say gently. I can see a half slice of the little girl’s face. She stares back at me with the one blue eye I can see.
‘We didn’t get properly introduced before, did we?’ I say. ‘This is Bertie and I am Hester. What’s your name, sweetie?’
‘Amber Mae Piper.’ Her voice is monotone and a little loud. Then she says, ‘I live at Flat 302, Burnside Estate, N9 2HJ.’ She busies herself with patting Bertie again. I can see he is starting to tire of her rather heavy-handed affection but I’m very anxious that she shouldn’t leave.
I am just trying to form another question when, unbidden, little Amber suddenly says: ‘We are looking for my daddy.’ She has that flat intonation I’ve heard before in people with this syndrome but it’s her words that have caused my legs to wobble beneath me.
‘Your … daddy?’ I say weakly. Then, because I can’t stop myself, ‘What’s your daddy’s name?’
She doesn’t reply but yanks a clump of grass from her side and tries to feed Bertie with it. Bored now, he has taken to licking his front paw with great concentration.
‘Amber?’
The harsh voice blasting from Melissa’s kitchen almost makes me fall backwards onto the grass. Amber’s mouth turns down at the corners.
‘Would you like to come and see Bertie again some time?’ I say.
A beautiful smile lights up her face and she nods. And then, as though it was the obvious follow-up, ‘My Daddy is Jamie Liam Cox.’
She gets to her feet and bustles away; a small washerwoman with chores to attend to.
‘Bye bye,’ I whisper. ‘Bye bye, Amber.’
Back in the kitchen I slump into a chair and stare into space.
I haven’t experienced much in the way of guilt about what we did. I know that’s wrong of me, but there it is.
But everything has changed now. I never knew that young man was a father; rapist or not. What we did has had an effect on that little angel’s life. I slump forward miserably, my head on the kitchen table. I begin to bang it repeatedly onto the plastic tablecloth, whimpering, ‘No. No. No.’
My head hurts and my stomach turns over. I run to the sink and bring up the remains of my breakfast cereal.
I reach for a knife from my wooden block near the cooker and fling it at the far wall. It bounces off and lands with a defeated thud on the lino. I take another and throw it at the kitchen door, using all my strength and yelping a little.
It hasn’t helped. So next I take a plant pot containing a small cactus from the windowsill and throw that at the same spot. Then the china chickens that belonged to Mum and then my wedding crockery. Then the china shepherdess.
Smash, smash, smash …
Finally, I sink into a chair and rest my head on my arms.
Everything is becoming muddled in my mind again. I have to remember that Jamie wasn’t an innocent man. Didn’t he try to force himself on Melissa? I wish I hadn’t cared about that. I wish I had never stepped in and helped her as I did. It has brought me nothing but ingratitude and heartache.
Bertie gives a small cry. Looking around at my devastated kitchen it occurs to me that all I have is a small dog and a lot of unwanted memories. I thought I had a friend, but I was wrong.
I have nothing to lose anymore.